I remember how the year would begin in a blur, in pursuit of the biggest party and the loveliest ladies. Now I'm happy just to be off the road! Times change. Happy New Year! My next post will be a recently rediscovered short story that will bring in 2008 shaken...not stirred!
Dave
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
A Christmas Letter To Laura, 2003
Christmas, more than any other time of year, is a time for memories. It's probably this fact that leads so many to feel the blues, because not every memory is joyful.
Having been born with an arch funny bone, I refuse to succumb to said blues when I think of loved ones I'll never see again. So as a second Christmas approaches since my eldest sister Laura passed away, I'd like to share a note I wrote, which brought her gales of laughter. With any luck, you'll get a hearty guffaw out of it, too.
*
DECEMBER 19, 2003
Dear Laura,
Merry Christmas! Even though I can't be there for this year's festivities in the 'ville (Victorville, Ca.), I'm happy and downright misty-eyed that we were together at Thanksgiving. It was, in a word, wonderful!
I thought, to amuse you for the current holiday, I'd recall a Christmas from long ago that has withstood the test of time. No, it has nothing to do with that "special present," or that Hallmark moment," nor anything remotely connected with the true spirit of giving or warmth of the season. No, this was the kind of event that, for better or worse, is as much a part of everyone's Christmas as the Three Wise Men, or Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.
We call it...Family Shit.
It was a typical Christmas in Southern California. December 25th, 1980--strong Santa Ana winds provided what we know as seasonal warmth, dispelling any of the chilly charm we pine for at Christmas, but not the spirit. Do you recall when we were all together at Lisa's (my other sister) house in West Covina? I made the trip with your two eldest sons and Reginald (one of my brothers) in his AMC Gremlin, a car with a fitting name for what would eventually happen that day.
Yes, there was a feeling that something would occur, and linger in our memories like the scent of Reg's cigarettes. It was, in fact, his inattentiveness to hygiene that set the tone on Christmas Eve. Darryl (my nephew), old friend Craig Gross, and I travelled to Reg's apartment on Orizaba Street, in an aging part of Long Beach. It was my own brotherly attempt to stave off some sort of embarassment. As you know, to open Reg's front door was to be assaulted by a conflagration of ash, smoke and stench. The ash rested in a fine layer over everything, just deep enough to make a snow angel were you to dared lay on the floor.
Then there was the smoke--wafting, moving slowly like a ghost. Smoke so white you'd think a Pope had been elected right there between the empty chili cans and rotting milk cartons. The evil scent that reached into one's nostrils and nearly pulled out an organ, should be left to your imagination.
Somewhere in the midst of this squalor was Reg's clothing. We figured he'd be able to get through Christmas Day if he were, at the very least, dressed decently. As he opened the door to his hall closet, I half expected a squadron of moths to fly out and buzz us like German fighter pilots. Even moths have to sustain life, however, and the cloistered environs of that closet would have suffocated Dracula!
Reg chose a suit he'd been given nine or ten years earlier, a green-blue, two-pant suit with a reversible, checkered vest. God knows what had happened to the green-blue pants, so he selected the checkered alternative. We suggested he try them on--years had passed since he'd worn them, and he'd put on a little weight. So he stepped out of trousers to reveal an unspeakable pair of briefs...fast on their way to becoming the color of Coca Cola. I stifled a thought that he might want to try a fresh pair of shorts as well, but I decided to choose my battles wisely.
The checkered pants were a mess. Getting into them, he looked for all the world like a teenaged girl putting on her first pair of panty hose, or a hausfrau struggling into a girdle. They fit him like the leotard on some Shakespearean actor...and if he were to wear them, he'd be asking for some sort of Shakespearean drama to occur.
"They don't fit, " I told him.
"These are MY pants, and I'm GONNA wear 'em!" he told us firmly, sucking the cork off a KOOL filter-tip cigarette. His attitude was so entrenched, we all backed off. The stage, then, was set for Christmas, 1980.
And it didn't take long for the fun to start. On the drive to West Covina, I kept my feet elevated, because some shopping bags were acting as a floor mat on the passenger's side of Reg's Gremlin. Apparently, he'd tried to consume what must have been an entire brewery a couple of nights before, and had tossed his cookies right there. It was a bad sign.
As I recall it, Darryl, Bryan (my other nephew) and I walked into Lisa's house first and milled around. Pop (my late father) was seated as only he could be, having eased his bulk into one of Lisa's comfortable chairs. Only two things could get him out of that seat: the shrill blast of our Mother's voice, or the chance to verbally jab at his sartorially and hygienically challenged third-eldest son. The latter opportinuty presented itself when Reg shambled through the door, dropped something, then bent over--in those pants, and while still in Pop's line of sight. Uh-oh...
As he bent, the pressure on Reg's pants was so incredible, the conjoined checks in the pattern were separating. The pantlegs were rising up his shins as if he were preparing to wade across a pond of elephant pee. Reg's ass was all anyone could see, his pants so taut, a sudden moment of flatulence would force a hole the size of a hubcap through them.
As Reg's "moon" rose, Pop seized the day--he simply could not resist.
"Hey, Smokey! Just couldn't conform, could ya? Couldn't find some decent clothes," he started. Reg ignored him.
"Oh yeah, I'm gonna talk about ya!" And Pop charged on, newly energized by Reg's reticence to acknowledge his caustic comments. And, yes, he sure did talk about him. At length! So as not to endure any further blistering, Reg went outside and fired up three or four consecutive KOOL filter-kings--the most powerful cigarettes not made in Turkey. Seriously, he could have saved money by just going down to La Brea and snorting the tar right out of the pits.
While Reg made like a refinery, belching smoke and frustration, I took a deep breath of fresh air, then went out to join him.
"I told you what would happen, asshole," I said, hoping the message would somehow get through the haze...the haze of his beer addled consciousness, and the fog of smoke curling from his nostrils and permeating everything in sight.
Reg fled the scene shortly after the meal. My only other rememberance of that day is going home to the folk's house and listening to the Lee Morgan jazz album that Thomas (another of my brothers who, sadly, has also left us) gave me for the holiday. Forever, though, along with Deck the Halls, Sleigh Ride, Jingle Bells, and Silent Night, the words, "Oh yeah, I'm gonna talk about ya!" will always, always conjure up this memory of Christmas, 1980.
Here's hoping Christmas 2003 is filled with Joy and laughter...not necessarily at someone's expense, but laughter, still and all!
Much love,
Your Brother Dave
*
More Christmas stuff to come.
Having been born with an arch funny bone, I refuse to succumb to said blues when I think of loved ones I'll never see again. So as a second Christmas approaches since my eldest sister Laura passed away, I'd like to share a note I wrote, which brought her gales of laughter. With any luck, you'll get a hearty guffaw out of it, too.
*
DECEMBER 19, 2003
Dear Laura,
Merry Christmas! Even though I can't be there for this year's festivities in the 'ville (Victorville, Ca.), I'm happy and downright misty-eyed that we were together at Thanksgiving. It was, in a word, wonderful!
I thought, to amuse you for the current holiday, I'd recall a Christmas from long ago that has withstood the test of time. No, it has nothing to do with that "special present," or that Hallmark moment," nor anything remotely connected with the true spirit of giving or warmth of the season. No, this was the kind of event that, for better or worse, is as much a part of everyone's Christmas as the Three Wise Men, or Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.
We call it...Family Shit.
It was a typical Christmas in Southern California. December 25th, 1980--strong Santa Ana winds provided what we know as seasonal warmth, dispelling any of the chilly charm we pine for at Christmas, but not the spirit. Do you recall when we were all together at Lisa's (my other sister) house in West Covina? I made the trip with your two eldest sons and Reginald (one of my brothers) in his AMC Gremlin, a car with a fitting name for what would eventually happen that day.
Yes, there was a feeling that something would occur, and linger in our memories like the scent of Reg's cigarettes. It was, in fact, his inattentiveness to hygiene that set the tone on Christmas Eve. Darryl (my nephew), old friend Craig Gross, and I travelled to Reg's apartment on Orizaba Street, in an aging part of Long Beach. It was my own brotherly attempt to stave off some sort of embarassment. As you know, to open Reg's front door was to be assaulted by a conflagration of ash, smoke and stench. The ash rested in a fine layer over everything, just deep enough to make a snow angel were you to dared lay on the floor.
Then there was the smoke--wafting, moving slowly like a ghost. Smoke so white you'd think a Pope had been elected right there between the empty chili cans and rotting milk cartons. The evil scent that reached into one's nostrils and nearly pulled out an organ, should be left to your imagination.
Somewhere in the midst of this squalor was Reg's clothing. We figured he'd be able to get through Christmas Day if he were, at the very least, dressed decently. As he opened the door to his hall closet, I half expected a squadron of moths to fly out and buzz us like German fighter pilots. Even moths have to sustain life, however, and the cloistered environs of that closet would have suffocated Dracula!
Reg chose a suit he'd been given nine or ten years earlier, a green-blue, two-pant suit with a reversible, checkered vest. God knows what had happened to the green-blue pants, so he selected the checkered alternative. We suggested he try them on--years had passed since he'd worn them, and he'd put on a little weight. So he stepped out of trousers to reveal an unspeakable pair of briefs...fast on their way to becoming the color of Coca Cola. I stifled a thought that he might want to try a fresh pair of shorts as well, but I decided to choose my battles wisely.
The checkered pants were a mess. Getting into them, he looked for all the world like a teenaged girl putting on her first pair of panty hose, or a hausfrau struggling into a girdle. They fit him like the leotard on some Shakespearean actor...and if he were to wear them, he'd be asking for some sort of Shakespearean drama to occur.
"They don't fit, " I told him.
"These are MY pants, and I'm GONNA wear 'em!" he told us firmly, sucking the cork off a KOOL filter-tip cigarette. His attitude was so entrenched, we all backed off. The stage, then, was set for Christmas, 1980.
And it didn't take long for the fun to start. On the drive to West Covina, I kept my feet elevated, because some shopping bags were acting as a floor mat on the passenger's side of Reg's Gremlin. Apparently, he'd tried to consume what must have been an entire brewery a couple of nights before, and had tossed his cookies right there. It was a bad sign.
As I recall it, Darryl, Bryan (my other nephew) and I walked into Lisa's house first and milled around. Pop (my late father) was seated as only he could be, having eased his bulk into one of Lisa's comfortable chairs. Only two things could get him out of that seat: the shrill blast of our Mother's voice, or the chance to verbally jab at his sartorially and hygienically challenged third-eldest son. The latter opportinuty presented itself when Reg shambled through the door, dropped something, then bent over--in those pants, and while still in Pop's line of sight. Uh-oh...
As he bent, the pressure on Reg's pants was so incredible, the conjoined checks in the pattern were separating. The pantlegs were rising up his shins as if he were preparing to wade across a pond of elephant pee. Reg's ass was all anyone could see, his pants so taut, a sudden moment of flatulence would force a hole the size of a hubcap through them.
As Reg's "moon" rose, Pop seized the day--he simply could not resist.
"Hey, Smokey! Just couldn't conform, could ya? Couldn't find some decent clothes," he started. Reg ignored him.
"Oh yeah, I'm gonna talk about ya!" And Pop charged on, newly energized by Reg's reticence to acknowledge his caustic comments. And, yes, he sure did talk about him. At length! So as not to endure any further blistering, Reg went outside and fired up three or four consecutive KOOL filter-kings--the most powerful cigarettes not made in Turkey. Seriously, he could have saved money by just going down to La Brea and snorting the tar right out of the pits.
While Reg made like a refinery, belching smoke and frustration, I took a deep breath of fresh air, then went out to join him.
"I told you what would happen, asshole," I said, hoping the message would somehow get through the haze...the haze of his beer addled consciousness, and the fog of smoke curling from his nostrils and permeating everything in sight.
Reg fled the scene shortly after the meal. My only other rememberance of that day is going home to the folk's house and listening to the Lee Morgan jazz album that Thomas (another of my brothers who, sadly, has also left us) gave me for the holiday. Forever, though, along with Deck the Halls, Sleigh Ride, Jingle Bells, and Silent Night, the words, "Oh yeah, I'm gonna talk about ya!" will always, always conjure up this memory of Christmas, 1980.
Here's hoping Christmas 2003 is filled with Joy and laughter...not necessarily at someone's expense, but laughter, still and all!
Much love,
Your Brother Dave
*
More Christmas stuff to come.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)